Provincials Like Me
by Yumeshojo
Summary: Bolund's a Nord, a Nord's Nord, and has no respect for anyone not a Nord. His racism is tolerated in Falkreath because his brother smooths things over, but when an Altmer with a tongue as blunt as Bolund's starts frequenting their town, he might just have found his match - in more ways than one. OCxBolund


**Disclaimer: If I owned, truly owned, the rights to Skyrim, I wouldn't be posting _fan_fiction, don't you agree?**

**So, I walked into Falkreath, turned into the Gray Pine Goods, and was met with Mr. Rude-y-rude-face, and was like 'oh, just you wait, you jerk, I'll write a fanfic where you fall in love with a "Provincial like me!" Take that!' Thus, this short little tid-bit was birthed. I actually enjoyed it rather well :) Hurray for lesser-loved characters!**

**Edit: Thanks to QueenD for pointing out I was using the wrong word ;p Fixed!  
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They first time they met, they'd both learned instantly what essentially summed up their personalities. Those first impressions left bitter marks, but they were marks that never left them, constant reminders.

She'd stepped into town, an outsider, unwanted, and stepped into Gray Pine Goods, just as unwelcome. Behind the counter, Solaf had been kind, understanding, and inviting; his brother, by the door, had been rude, insulting, and downright hostile. In return, she'd be closed down, biting, and arrogant.

She was an Altmer in a town of torn loyalties, a stranger viewed with suspicion, even by her own kinsmen. She was no Thalmor, but she was no child of Skyrim, either, and that was enough for him. He was a racist brute, a Nord in the truest sense and an example of the worst of his kind. He was proud and stubborn and unyielding, and that was enough for her.

They didn't know, at first, that it was truly enough for them both.

Solaf was used to his brother's behavior, had made himself Bolund's keeper long ago. Keeping his brother in check, explaining him away, keeping tempers calm and peace with others. It didn't take long for her to visit Solaf alone one day and ask him to, simply, let them fight. He was wary, but he agreed to stay out of it.

His comments had been offensive, at first. But after a bit, she'd stopped taking him seriously. He'd become a joke, and then he'd become sad, and then he'd become constant. War was raging, and she was part of it, and it made her tired. The only thing gauranteed to get her blood going again, to wake her from the numbness of patricide and pain, was his snide voice. Falkreath became a place to come home too, and the surly lumberjack become someone she could be honest with, the only person she could vent on, yell and bark and share her feelings and pain and resentment with. She didn't have to think of hurting him, offending him, alienating him; and he, in return, needed not think of her feelings, but could say his mean words, throw his insults around, be as angry as he wanted with the world when he was with her, not like when his brother talked him down, kept the peace. They were angry together; they were free.

Somehow, this became normal. Somehow, this was expected. Somehow, when she was gone, she missed it. Somehow, when she was gone, he missed it, too.

She was gone rather often. She was often gone rather long. And at those times he was more irritable than usual, more surly and reclusive, more aggitated. And one time it grated on his brother so much he actually commented on it, on her. "You can't expect her to be here all the time, you know. Being a soldier's hard work."

He hadn't known she was a soldier; he thinks he should have known. Typical elf. Fighting to control his country, enslave his people, deprive true Nords of all their honor and glory. So, when he hears the war has ended in Skyrim's favor, and a few days later she finally comes home, he's shocked to see her uniform: blue fabric on chainmail, a round shield painted with Winhelm's bear, Ulfric's emblem. There's dried blood on her face, and he wonders if she walked strait home from the battle.

Then he realizes he thinks she's home. Not because she's in Falkreath, not because she's in Skyrim. Because she's where he is.

She spots him standing in the road, staring at her, stopped in his tracks on his way to Gray Pine. She smirks, eyes bright despite the bags beneath, gentle even though her face is cocky. "Still can't believe they're letting Provincials like me wander Skyrim?"

He swallows the lump in his throat, lost for words. She's home and she's sassy, she's uninjured and she's beautiful; she's an elf and he wants to hit himself, instead he scowls and debates on buying her a drink.


End file.
